Monthly Archives: June 2016

Fetishes, or: I Am Not A Serial Killer

Your beauty exists in more than your charm;
The moment we strangers meet and lock eyes
Please give unto me your hands and your arms.

Your smile, stunning; your eyes like stars;
A body made for unadulterated delight,
But your beauty exists in more than your charm.

The grasp and dexterity of your muscles are
Chemical elements that ‘twixt us are not finite.
Give unto me your hands and your arms.

Other women with allure you disarm
But my romance goes far deeper than sight:
Your beauty exists in more than your charm

Your brachial power stripped of its harm,
And frozen for my benefit with formaldehyde;
Given unto me your hands and your arms.

Strung from the ceiling or preserved in jars,
Your ruby blood droplets gleam in the light.
Your beauty exists in more than your charm;
Given unto me your hands and your arms.

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Author’s note: The Mush Hole is published!

51gce5CAL%2BL._SX312_BO1,204,203,200_Hello readers! Exciting news on this blog! My story “The Mush Hole” is officially published! I have been working on self-publishing some of my work, and this story I wrote last year is up first! Please go take a look and purchase it if you’re so inclined! (And spread the word!) It’s available for Kindle and Kindle varieties right now, and I will be looking into expanding these options in the future as I get the hang of self-publishing.

And as I begin working on longer stories this summer, I intend to publish those on Amazon as well, and I will put links here that you can follow to find them.

So without further ado, here is “The Mush Hole”!

 

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Now That You’re Gone

Now that you’re gone I go out less.
I stay inside in the evenings
in my pajamas and eat popcorn
from a bowl while watching
Friends reruns, a luxury i never had
when you were here.
In those days I smiled plainly,
chuckled at your jokes, kissed your cheek;
you kissed mine back as though
a few weeks ago
it hadn’t been
bright red and then purple and black
from the back of your hand.
In those days we went out
with your friends, never mine,
and you squeezed my hand under the table,
threatening me soundlessly
until your knuckles
were white and mine were red
while above the table you drank your
beers and laughed
at your friends’ asinine jokes.
They never knew. I never dared
say a word to anyone,
barely even to myself, although
I knew something was wrong.

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This Is Not A Romantic Poem

This is not a romantic poem.
It’s 11:30 at night
and I desperately
want you to text me back.
I’ve been waiting all day
to hear from you.
Should I text you again?
No,
you’ll respond eventually.
But this waiting game is agony.

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